


Treaty Signings Never Go Well

by PrairieDawn



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: (non-sexual), Allergies, Gen, Gender double standard, Partial Nudity, Tattoos, treaty signing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:00:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26830306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrairieDawn/pseuds/PrairieDawn
Summary: A treaty signing includes an unpleasant surprise.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 56





	Treaty Signings Never Go Well

**Author's Note:**

> Another Trektober prompt: Uhura, Aliens Made Them Do It, desk. (Not that "It")
> 
> This is a kind of silly one.
> 
> A note: Writing in the POV of a POC if one isn't one has become controversial of late. I am torn. On the one hand, I don't want to take space from someone else or do a terrible job of presenting a particular group. On the other, there is precious little Uhura fic out there and I'd hate to see her forgotten because no one feels okay writing her. I am happy to take correction in this regard.

“We can remove it as soon as we’re back on the ship,” Dr. McCoy muttered into her ear.

“It’s fine,” Nyota responded tightly.

“You don’t have to let them do this,” Spock added from her other side.

“It’s. Fine.” She winced a little at the snappishness in her voice. “Why would it be less fine for me than it would be for you?”

“Right, you’re right,” McCoy said. “It’s only a tattoo. In public. With no local anesthetic.”

“And the outcome of the negotiations will depend in part on our ability to endure the discomfort stoically,” Spock reminded them.

Jim rolled his eyes. “Well, you ought to do just fine, then.” He sized the other three up with a glance, nodded curtly, and stepped onto the brightly lit dais, where four kneelers were arranged in a rough semicircle in front of an imposing desk. Spock followed with a hand resting lightly, possessively, on Nyota’s elbow. McCoy brought up the rear, scanning the crowd suspiciously.

The aliens were short, stout, and varying shades of ruddy pink. There were a hundred or more of them, all wearing formal trousers and jewelry, their torsos marked with a combination of tattoos and more temporary, painted symbols. Eight of them approached the dais to stand one on either side of each kneeler. A ninth stood in the center of the semicircle. “Welcome Federation representatives. We of Shiortha are grateful for your offer of alliance and hope to determine that it is sincere.”

Each of them stepped up to the desk and signed their names to the ceremonial paper version of the treaty, then stood behind a kneeler.

The ambassador turned away from the crowd of legislators to address the four of them directly and more quietly. “If you will remove your cloaks.”

Jim pulled off his shirt and undershirt in a swift, smooth movement, nearly in unison with Spock. Both men folded the garments carefully and set them in front of their kneelers. McCoy sighed heavily and tugged off his own, while Nyota took a moment to fix her eyes on the ground, trying to rid herself of the sense of being on display. Women went topless on beaches all the time. It was a perfectly appropriate state, and her aversion to it was, as Spock might say, illogical. She took a breath and pulled off her uniform top and sports bra, then took her place between the two ceremonial tattoo artists.

The small, but intricate tattoo was to be placed directly over each of their hearts. One of the Shiortha stood behind her to grip her shoulders, holding her firmly while the other applied the ink. The needle burned, but not so badly she couldn’t bite her tongue and think of something else. Her gaze settled on each of the men in turn. Jim was almost smiling, but then, he was a shameless exhibitionist if a more benign one than she’d thought back at the Academy. McCoy looked put upon, but given that expression was permanently etched onto his features, that was no surprise. The amount of ink already laced across his arms and torso was, though.   
A brief, sharp intake of breath beside her caught her attention and she turned her head sharply enough that the Shiortha behind her tightened his grip. Spock’s eyes were open, fixed on a decorative sconce above a door. His jaw was squared and a muscle twitched in his cheek. He shouldn’t be in that much discomfort.

The Shiortha holding his shoulders wrinkled her brow and leaned over to consult briefly with the tattoo artist. Shit. None of them had thought to suggest that the people tattooing Spock wear gloves. Her vision wavered for a second and she suddenly felt dizzy. Shit, shit. They’d said the tattoos were to ensure their sincerity. She chewed her lip briefly, then mumbled in Vulcan, just loud enough for Spock to hear, “The ink is drugged.”

I am aware, Spock replied without words. I cannot maintain my shields. We were not told of the drug.

They both immediately turned their heads to stare at the Captain, whose smile, already broad and easy looking, had gone downright silly. More concerning was the deep pink mottling working its way up from Kirk’s chest toward his face. She pinpointed the exact moment McCoy saw it. He tensed, wide eyed, and glared at the Captain, who shook his head slightly. Interrupting the ceremony could cost them the alliance.

Then again, so could the Captain keeling over in anaphylactic shock. The tattoo artists completed their work and stepped back, leaving only the Shiortha who were holding them still--holding them up, she realized groggily. The ambassador turned to Spock first. “Does the treaty we intend to sign contain any hidden clauses intended to harm the Shiortha?”

Spock blinked. “It does not.”

They turned to Nyota next. “You translated the treaty for us. Did you do so with pure intentions, not deliberately obscuring the meaning of the text?”

“I did,” she said before she even realized she was speaking.

“McCoy, do your people bear ours any ill will?”

“Not yet, but I will if you don’t let me go right now! The Captain’s reacting to the drug you snuck into the ink. If I have my way this treaty is null and void right now.” Clearly, the drug had affected the Doctor’s ability to shut up. 

The ambassador nodded slightly, then turned gracefully to Kirk, whose eyes were wide, watering and very blue. The hives were creeping up past his collarbone. “Will Starfleet put its people and ships in danger to protect ours?”

“My husband, my First Officer, and my Communications officer can all see I’m in bad shape,” he rasped. “Soon I won’t be able to breathe. But they will wait until this ridiculous ceremony is over before they move to help me. Just to respect,” he stopped to cough, then sucked in a whistling breath. “Your culture.” He stopped again to wheeze. “What do you think?” His eyes rolled up in his head and he pitched forward, though Nyota wasn’t sure whether he was exaggerating just a little for dramatic effect.

It had the desired effect. “I declare that the treaty is offered in good faith and is, therefore, valid,” the ambassador much more quickly than the solemn ceremony seemed to demand. “See to your captain.”

McCoy dove for the captain, Spock fumbled in his pants for his communicator, and before Nyota could say, “We look forward to a long and productive alliance,” the transporter carried all four of them away.

McCoy paused for a moment on the transporter pad to administer a couple of hyposprays, then the two of them scooped the captain into a chair carry and ran awkwardly in the direction of Sickbay.

Uhura headed for the bridge to take her station and let Sulu know what was up. The ship was colder than usual, or maybe that was just the effect of the drug. The turbolift doors slid open and she strode onto the bridge. “The damn Shiortha drugged us,” she said to the room at large. Sulu and Chekov turned around in their chairs. “Spock and McCoy took the Captain to Sickbay--he had an allergic reaction to the drug, surprise, surprise.”

They both stared. Chekov’s cheeks were pink. Sulu’s brow was wrinkled in puzzlement. “Get back to work, you two!” she told them and took her station.

After a few minutes spent monitoring routine messages from the planet for any unfortunate consequences of their hasty departure, Sickbay commed. “Uhura here.”

“Captain’s doing better. He’s sleeping it off here.” The doctor paused a moment, presumably to speak to someone out of range of the audio pickup. “Best you get down here so I can give you an antidote to that truth drug and put some antiseptic on the tattoo.”

“Right, of course.” She reached up to touch the stinging tattoo, remembered she wasn’t supposed to until it was healed, and only then connected the chill on her back and arms to the tattoo visible between her breasts. Between. Her breasts. 

“Mr. Sulu. Don’t turn around.”

“No, sir. Of course not, sir.”

“I’m going to Sickbay. Could I borrow your shirt?”

“Of course.”

Beside him, Chekov stifled a giggle but kept his back turned, which was fortunate for his continued good health. Sulu stripped off his gold shirt, set it on the console, and pulled off his black undershirt, then replaced his uniform top. He then flipped the undershirt backward over his head without looking. She snagged it out of the air and pulled it on. “Gentlemen,” she said, turning smartly on her heel. She stopped in front of the turbolift. “I think there might be something wrong with the security feed from the bridge. See to it, would you?”

“Of course, Lieutenant,” Chekov replied with a mostly straight face.

The turbolift doors closed mercifully. That footage had better be wiped off the face of the universe by the time she got back from sickbay.


End file.
